Mischief Managed
by LeonaWriter
Summary: Harry has black hair and green eyes, and many would say that the hair was his father's and his eyes, his mother's. When in fact, they both could be traced back to one person.
1. Truth in Dreams

Mischief Managed

Truth in Dreams

...

Harry didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, half invisible as his cloak had pooled around him at some point, staring into the depths of the Mirror.

There he was, those same eyes and the same hair and face and scar, looking back at him. But unlike any normal mirror, this one showed him more. His mother and father, both standing behind him. Lily Potter was smiling, her eyes as green as his, her hair down past her shoulders and fiery red, her hand ghosting above his shoulder. James Potter, hair unkempt and flying free just like Harry's, brown eyes kind but sad behind glasses that were, again, just like Harry's. There were men and women behind them both, people Harry had never seen, and was quite sure that he never would. An old man on one side who had his nose, another somewhere else that seemed to have his knees. Dark hair, some long and some short in an attempt to tame it, some with limbs askew and too long, and some not quite so tall.

But standing behind and just to one side of his father, with one hand on his shoulder and a full head taller, was a man with slicked-back hair and green eyes similar to Harry's mother, dressed in strange clothes even for what little Harry had seen so far of the wizarding world. Blacks and dark greens, with a little gold. Rich clothes, with leather and steel and cloth. And yet he was smiling, uncaring that he was trapped in the mirror unable to escape from it, and whispered something in James' ear, to which the other mirror-occupant smiled, and laughed. And then they were all smiling at Harry, including him, or wanting to include him, in whatever it had been.

Harry sighed. If only they could. If only he could go through the mirror and be with them - but he couldn't. All he could do was sit and stare, night after night.

"Back again, Harry?"

Harry jumped. He hadn't heard the professor come in, hadn't noticed him sitting there - when had that happened?

"It is a funny thing, how short-sighted being invisible makes you, Harry," Dumbledore said, with a smile. Harry blinked owlishly, distantly aware of twin spots of red blossoming on his cheeks. "Tell me, Harry, do you know what the Mirror of Erised does?"

Harry thought for a while. On what he'd seen, and what Ron had seen, the one time he'd brought his friend down to look.

"It shows us what we want. Anything we want."

Dumbledore smiled, faintly, looking in the direction of the Mirror.

"Perhaps, perhaps. And yet at the same time, not quite. It shows us not the past, or the future, but nothing more, and nothing less, than the innermost desires of our hearts. You, Harry, who have always been alone, see yourself surrounded by your family. Your friend, Mr. Weasley, who has always been overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself more than all of them."

Harry didn't say anything, taking this in. Although he was admittedly still captivated by the images of his parents, and of that strange, strange man who was currently giving Lily Potter 'bunny ears' behind her back, grinning straight at Harry.

"Men have whiled away their lives in front of this Mirror, Harry. Gazing into the depths of what they desire, yet never moving nearer to what they long for. Bear in mind, Harry... It does not do to dwell in dreams and forget to live."

This time, Harry forced himself to turn away, and nodded.

Something, however, was bothering him. And he said so.

"But- sir? You said the Mirror would show me what I... desired," that's the word he'd used. "But... how can it show me my family if I've never seen them even once?"

Dumbledore sighed, and an expression of something akin to pain flickered across his features faster than Harry could follow it. Before he knew it had even been there, it was replaced by an indulging smile, and the twinkle in the headmaster's eyes was back.

"Who knows how the wonders of our magical world work? But I am sure that if the Mirror is showing you those individuals, then they are, indeed, your family. I would, however, like you to promise me one thing, Harry."

"What's that, professor?"

He hadn't been completely satisfied with the answer - the man in the Mirror who didn't look like he completely fitted there next to everyone else wiggled his fingers at them both - but he was fairly certain that he wasn't going to get a more straightforward answer than that.

"Promise me that you won't go seeking out the Mirror of Erised again. It is going to be moved to a new home regardless but all the same, do not go looking for it."

Harry simply nodded. He wasn't sure if it was because he was agreeing to the headmaster's condition, of simply in understanding of the facts. A lump rose unbidden to his throat when, independently of the rest, the figure in green and black smiled at him, sadly, and gave him a one-handed wave. Harry shut his eyes, tight, for a long minute before opening them again, looking anywhere but the Mirror.

He started to leave, but then turned back, one last question on his lips.

"Professor, can I ask you something?"

Dumbledore laughed, "I believe you just did, but you can have another."

"Professor, what do you see when you look in the Mirror?"

...

AN: What started out as crack... now is fic. D'OH.

Point to be noted, is that for Loki this happens way before the events of the movie. Seen as it's in... 1991-ish. Usagi already knows what's going on here - more or less - and where he fits in the scheme of things.

This was simply the first scene that was really important. The first moment of suspicion that Harry gets.


	2. A Photo Tells a Thousand Words

Mischief Managed

A Photo Tells a Thousand Words

...

It's the third time Harry is looking through the family photo album Hagrid gave him before he boarded the Hogwarts express to go back to the Dursleys, and he's starting to get the idea that he's missing something.

He's lost count of the number of times he's touched a finger to the moving pictures, wishing that he could be that small bit closer to the only relatives who had ever truly loved him. The number of times he's stopped to check one person or another's likeness against what he remembered from the Mirror.

So far, he'd found all but one.

So far, no one in the album looked quite the same as the man with dark hair slicked back like Snape's but in a way that looked good instead of greasy, the man with his green eyes and the clothes of the same colour that didn't have a place in even wizarding society.

He wasn't there in the more recent photos, or in the later ones, or even in the ones taken when his parents had still been at school. There was, however, someone in there that he hadn't seen in the Mirror of Erised those nights, on none of those nights. A woman with black hair that curled free, with laughing green eyes. Who only appeared in one - no, two - photos, both at his parents' wedding. She wore green robes, but apart from that the differences weren't enough that he thought about it further.

After all, the person in the Mirror had been a man, and this one was a woman, and for all Harry knew, she could have been the Slytherin friend of one of his parents, or simply some woman they knew who liked wearing green. It didn't mean anything. It didn't have to.

It didn't stop him from wondering, though, or thinking every so often on who the man who had been in the Mirror had been. He had to be a relative, or he wouldn't have shown up at all.

Harry sighed, and not for the last time wished he could ask someone about this. Maybe once he was back at school he could find someone who might know, or ask one of the professors who would have known his parents. Not Snape, though - no matter how much and how well the Potions master had known his father, he wasn't about to go to him. He wasn't _that_ desperate.

He also wasn't desperate enough to go to the Dursleys. Aunt Petunia might have known something, but there was a very good reason why the first he had ever known of his family outside of his aunt, uncle and cousin had been when Hagrid had come into the hut, and told Harry that he was a wizard. So much had happened since then, and Harry had changed, but that one thing if nothing else had stayed the same. No, he wasn't about to ask any of them.

Wistfully, he hovered his fingers over one last photo, his parents beaming out in their wedding clothes while guests milled around and the woman in green slung her arm around his dad's shoulders, and regretfully turned off the lamplight, shutting the album and tried to go back to sleep.  
...

AN: An obvious follow-up to the previous part. No, I don't intend on detailing every little thing that changes. Although the bigger things might get more frequent after a while.


	3. Of Snakes and Glory

Mischief Managed

Of Snakes and Glory

...

Panting, bloodied and covered in mud and slime from head to toe, Harry listened, frantically trying to breathe quieter, and not open his eyes.

He could hear it - he could hear Tom, Tom Riddle, who would, had, grown up to be Voldemort, who was killing Ginny just by existing, he could hear them both, and they were out for his blood.

He'd never been afraid of snakes before in his life. Slytherins, maybe, and the idea of going into their house when he was first about to be sorted, but never real, live snakes. The fact that he'd always been able to talk to them for as long as he could remember probably helped.

He still remembered how confused he'd been after the Duelling club, having found himself back in the Griffindor common room. Ron and Hermione had been uneasy, uncertain, but he honestly hadn't known that anything was wrong, that it wasn't anything other than just one more odd wizard thing that some people had, and that he hadn't been told about.

They'd corrected him on that - _"Talking to snakes is something usually associated with dark wizards, Harry. It's not a good thing."_ - and told him to keep it to himself a bit more. Harry had taken the advice to heart, but had been constantly frustrated by it - snakes were just animals, albeit cold-blooded ones, so they weren't at fault with what labels people stuck on them.

He'd idly wondered whether the boa constrictor he'd freed back at the zoo the previous summer had reached Brazil. Probably not, but it was nice to think it had.

And now here he was.

Well, whatever anyone said later, it wasn't glorious, and it wasn't courageous, and it wasn't really anything, apart from him trying to stay alive and not slipping and falling to his death, and Griffindor's sword was actually a lot heavier than it looked, but at least he could lift it, that was what mattered.

No one ever told you about the blood. No one could ever tell you about how it was hot, and it stank, and it clogged up your clothes.

For the first time in his life, Harry was truly afraid of a snake. And he'd not looked into its eyes, but he'd known that it was mad, truly mad, just as mad as the boy who'd stolen his wand, who was killing Ginny, and now he was killing Harry as well just by talking and standing there and getting more and more blurred by the second.

He found himself staring distantly at the figure, dark hair and dark eyes, cold and deep and somewhere he didn't want to go, and wishing that they were green, not sure if he was longing for Lily or the strange man who had pranked her in the Mirror or the curly-haired woman in the photos of his parents' wedding, but none of them were there - it was only Harry, and Harry, while he may or may not be dying any more, didn't have much. He'd have to do this on his own.

His hands were sore, and bleeding, and he had cuts and scrapes and bruises all over from falling down in the tunnels, but he forced himself to move. If he didn't, then they really would be stuck down there forever, even though they'd beaten the monster... both monsters.  
...

AN: I'd been wondering where to go next, and two things really struck me - one was that I'd been thinking about how Harry being a Parseltongue was interesting, and the other being that this scene - Harry defeating and killing the Basilisk - could technically be thought of as his 'coming of age' in Asgardian terms.

Although normally you do this with a boar or something _a little less deadly._..

As a specific aside for my readers here, if you review and you're either on anon or you have PMs disabled, I cannot reply. I may want to, but I can't. So don't be surprised if I don't answer your questions if you've made it so that I'm unable.

However, one person did raise a point - and I'll answer it here. This is set (as I think I mentioned before) before the Thor movie. This chapter takes place in 1992. Thor takes place in 2011. I likely will include the movie events at some point, but it will take quite some time before they're relevant!


	4. Fear Itself

Mischief Managed

Fear Itself

...

Hermione frowned, yet again having brought their first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson of the year to mind. It had, all in all, been a good lesson. Something that should not have been strange - it was a class where they should have had a good teacher from the beginning, given what it taught - and yet the word was, as always, 'should'.

The number of questions she had about their new professor were innumerable, and a great many would require her to simply watch, and wait.

And yet, she was fairly certain that no one else in the class had noticed the professor's boggart.

The first thing that had caught her eye had been the eerily round silver orb that had suddenly taken residence somewhat at the professor's eye level during the class when the boggart had found its way to him, or rather, when Professor Lupin had distracted it from Harry. It could have been many things - a crystal ball, a gem, anything - but there had been something about it that instantly sparked off a memory, tantalising, just out of reach.

The second thing that had her attention was the way the boggart had reacted. Admittedly, it was after a whole slew of students had approached it, but it hadn't reacted like _that_ before. Wavered.

Wait, no, actually... it had. In between each student. Whenever it changed form.

So then... had it been about to shift to whatever Harry's fear was? Or could it have possibly been something else? A fear of their new professor's that he wanted to keep secret?

She allowed a frown to cross her face as she ran to her next class as her future self rejoined Harry and Ron. If it was the latter, then it wasn't any of her business. Or theirs.

And yet the question haunted her into the year. As they studied Kappas and Hinkypunks and Red Caps, and they were taught in an exacting way how to deal with each one and more, and as Hermione gathered together, piece by piece and accidentally or not, the truth behind their professor.

Still she kept her mouth shut. He was a good teacher, and Harry liked him, and she liked him as well, and... well. He hadn't hurt anyone so far, had he? Therefore, there must be some way that he was safe.

Still. Even so.

What could a werewolf possibly fear more than the full moon?

For a good few months she had even wondered if she had been mistaken. It was entirely possible, especially with her estranged sleep patterns nowadays, but the very fact that Harry, on one of the occasions when she and Ron weren't fighting and so he didn't feel guilty about approaching her, asked - rhetorically and hypothetically, of course - if it was possible for someone to cause a boggart to change into something else. He gave an excuse of some sort, that she didn't believe for one second.

He'd seen the same thing that she had. That waver.

She hadn't been able to answer in exacting detail, but had done the best that she could. It was, she didn't like to say, not always easy to describe how some things might go if she hadn't gone through a similar experience.

A boggart could be changed, she explained, only if one could focus clearly on something else that one feared equally.

A contemplative look passed across Harry's face, and for a moment she wondered if she'd said too much, but it wasn't as though it was anything he couldn't have found out through textbooks and written accounts, if he'd thought to look there first.  
...

AN: At first this was going to be the scene on the train. Then it was going to be in two halves, one bit from Harry's point of view. Then I decided on this, since I didn't need to go into intricate detail of Harry's thought processes.

There is a point in this. And if you are clever, it will be rather obvious, really. Needless to say, I'm playing about with a few character roles...


	5. Breakthrough

Mischief Managed

Breakthrough

...

When asked if he remembered anything from the first time Voldemort had tried to kill him, Harry usually said no. Not really. Well, there was a green light, but that was it.

Well, that was true, but that wasn't, if he was being honest, all of the truth.

His first year at Hogwarts had driven this from his mind - there were other things to be dealt with, and although Voldemort came back, nothing brought to mind anything else that had happened that night, nothing except what everyone expected him to remember, and he had friends now. He didn't want to bring such things up, and break apart the happy memories that he could be making by asking anything about it.

His second year was similar, although filled with just as many questions as answers, but none touched upon that night, so many years ago.

And then, the Dementors came, and his dreams were filled with the half-remembered screams of his parents, and the vague memory that he had always had of a bright flash of sickly green light, which he knew now must have been the curse that had killed his parents, and nearly would have done the same to him if it had not been for his mother laying down her life for him.

Every so often since the Dementors had made their appearance at the Quidditch grounds, he would wake up in a sweat, still tense and full of the feeling that the worst had yet to come - and given his previous two years, that was not so far-fetched as it could have been.

It was distracting, though, left him feeling tired and unrested through the rest of the day. Between the two of them, Harry and Hermione often made quite the pair, both looking as exhausted as each other, and it was on one of these occasions when Harry had woken up to one of his nightmares that morning, and they were all sitting together in the library, trying - hopefully not in vain - to find some way of saving Buckbeak.

Hermione had several large books open, dominating almost the entire space and leaving very little for he and Ron to deal with, not that it mattered much when most of the books were ones she'd picked out in the first place, and neither of them could go through multiple books at once the same way that she could.

Harry sighed, and rubbed reflexively at his forehead, feeling a headache of the entirely normal sort coming on. They weren't getting anywhere. His eyes roamed around for something to catch their interest - anything that might help or anything that might be useful, it didn't matter which - and settled unexpectedly on one of the books lying open on the table.

"Hang on," he said, shocking Hermione out of her reading-induced stupor and Ron out of a similar one brought about by not understanding most of the words on the page, "I recognise those."

Hermione frowned, and pulled the book closer, so that she could see what he was talking about, and raised her eyebrows at him when she saw.

"Harry, this is my Ancient Runes textbook. You haven't been studying Ancient Runes."

"Yeah, mate," Ron chimed in. "Unless, y'know, it's one of those weird things about you. No offence, though."

Harry just rolled his eyes at his friend and edged the book back over, so that he could have a better look.

"No, I do. They're familiar. I don't know how - they just are."

Hermione scooted closer this time, and Ron offered only a token look of interest.

"All right, then. Which ones do you recognise?"

He took another look. And oh, just his luck that they made no sense the moment he tried to actually make any, or remember- "No. Nothing, really. I just... they're vaguely familiar. That's all."

He didn't miss the disappointed look Hermione had at not being able to take it further, but it was hardly as though it was his fault.

...

The next few nights were, surprisingly, without memory-induced nightmares. Which was a good thing too, as one of those days held a potions class, and it would have been a recipe for disaster if he had to attend another of those on bad sleep.

His next patronus lesson, however useful the end result might be, took all of that back in a dance of one step forward, two steps back, and he was left with the heart-wrenching feeling of something having broken. Not recently, but a long, long time ago.

He didn't tell Professor Lupin. He didn't want to worry the man, and he was sure that if he told the teacher, he'd be told that he couldn't practice with the boggart any longer. And he _had_ to be able to perform the counter-spell. He had to.

But the feeling didn't go away. And more and more often, Hermione would catch him stealing looks at her Ancient Runes textbooks, flicking through the pages and making notes when one of them jumped out at him, determined to figure out what was going on.

Hermione, of course, was more than willing to help, and since she was the only one of the three of them who was even taking Ancient Runes in the first place, she also knew more about the subject matter, and who to go to. She had, for instance, long since realised that the runes Harry was recognising were Nordic in origin, which narrowed the search down a little at least.

It was several months later when she approached him hesitantly, with her list of runes that she'd made up, and her list of meanings, a sombre look on her face.

"I... Harry. I think I know what they were saying."

It had also been Hermione who had realised at one point that obvious truth - that he wasn't remembering random sigils, but a constructed sentence.

She took a deep breath.

Harry waited.

"It was a protection spell. To ward off harm."

Oh. _Oh_.

"And- I don't want to get your hopes up. It could have been either of your parents, but-"

"But?"

"But it had to have been done by someone actually blood related to you," she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth rapidly, so that Harry had to wait a moment for his brain to catch up with what he was hearing.

"So... what you're saying is, it had to have been... a relative? But..."

"I know, Harry. _I know_."

Everyone who could have done that was dead.

...

AN: And I think I'll leave this right there. Heh.

And... for those of you wanting Loki to appear? He will make his appearance when I want him to. No sooner, no later. I have got it planned out, and no cajoling can bring the plot forward.

Interestingly however, this chapter is another of those fully original pieces, drawing from canon but apart from it and at the same time, very important to the story...


	6. Ribbons and Ropes

Ribbons and Ropes

...

Harry found Lupin as the man was packing his things away into a battered old suitcase which had clearly seen better days. Harry felt angry at the sight – angry that Lupin was leaving, and, once the man had explained why, angry that he felt like he had to go. Maybe most of all, he felt angry that people thought that way about werewolves, hated perfectly nice people. That this prejudice had lost Harry his favourite Defence teacher.

But Lupin assured him that it was his own choice. For everyone's safety. Harry was sure he saw a lot of regret in the man's eyes, and knew that Lupin was going to miss being back at Hogwarts, teaching, just as much as the students who didn't care about stupid things like people turning into wolves once a month (and so long as nothing happened like someone missing a dose of the Wolfsbane potion, it _could_ be called stupid, Harry thought) were going to miss him.

Lupin gave him the Marauder's Map back, and for not the first time did Harry see some of the old Marauder in him. There had been glimpses before, of course there had, but nothing like the grin he gave Harry as he handed the map over. It reminded him of a face he thought could almost remember, a laughing grin... and then it was gone.

Then... Lupin hesitated at the door. He turned around, and faced Harry, with a strange look in his eyes like the kind Dumbledore sometimes had when he had a secret Harry knew he was only going to be told 'wait until you are older' if Harry asked what it was.

Then, he sighed.

"If only Professor Snape hadn't tried tying me up in there last night... ah, but we can't muse on could-have-beens, can we?"

Harry frowned, confused.

"How does it matter if Snape tied you up or not? We got you out, didn't we?"

"Harry... if only it were that simple. I wish it were." He ran a hand through his uneven brown hair, the same shade as the fur Harry had seen in the dark. "I react badly to being bound, physically bound. I had a... a bad experience, in my early years before Hogwarts. I've been able to overcome it in the years since, but my wolf form remembers."

"Oh."

Lupin nodded.

"But then – what if Snape _hadn't_ done that?"

"What if he hadn't? Hm. I might not have attacked Sirius, and he might have then been able to distract me. Who knows, after that? We can't change the past, and it's best not to dwell on what could have been."

Harry bit his lip, but nodded, remembering Dumbledore's words in his first year.

But then... why had Lupin told him this?

"Don't get me wrong, Harry, I would never even think of suggesting that a werewolf is safe. No wild animal is, and one brought on by a magical transformation especially so. But bear what I said in mind, hm?"

Harry didn't know, precisely, what it was that he was supposed to be bearing in mind. Only that there were now footsteps outside of the classroom, and the owner of those footsteps made himself known as Professor Dumbledore moments later, informing Lupin that his carriage was waiting for him at the gates.

The end of his conversation with Lupin was almost forgotten about, put to one side, when Dumbledore brought up Peter Pettigrew, reminding Harry of the prophecy Trelawney had spoken not too long ago of Voldemort returning to power.

But every so often he'd think about it, and wonder – what was Lupin trying to say? He kept having the strangest feeling that he was missing something. Something big. And obvious. And he was going to want to kick himself when he realised what it was.

...

AN: I'm not too sure how this came out, and to be honest, it's partially been written to move the story on and get this thing _out there_. Certain things could be taken from this chapter (and possibly the last one or two) about Lupin.

The 'reveal' is getting closer with each chapter, I think you'll be pleased to hear, you people who want me to rush things, but mainly because I skip most of the canon stuff that doesn't get changed, and doesn't need to. You may know, however, that when Snape tied Lupin up, Sirius did in fact say in this story, a resounding 'You shouldn't have done that'. To which Snape promptly ignores. The idiot.


	7. Interlude - Loki

Interlude - Loki

...

Loki sat, half hidden by the shadows of the walls and corridors of the palace, as Thor and Fandral sparred with one another in the courtyard. Fandral, so far, was winning - his vanity gave way to his wit when in battle, and the fair-headed swordsman was lighter and quicker on his feet than Loki's brother could ever be. Thor tended towards brute force as always, but was not without tact, in a fight if not in words. Even from this distance, Loki could see several ways with which Thor could turn the tide, and some of which Thor might even think of, even though the sword was not his preferred weapon of choice.

Loki himself, however, had other things on his mind, and only noticed his brother winning the match due to the sheer volume of his celebrations. He rolled his eyes, and went back to tapping his forefinger against his lips in thought, a slight frown furrowing between his eyes. He didn't notice as the group came over, laughing and clapping each other on their backs.

"Come, Loki! You sit out like this, and you give us reason to worry for you!"

"Ah, but Thor," Fandral interjected, "doesn't Loki always do this? Unless there's something in it for him, he sees no reason to get involved!"

Loki raised his eyebrows at them.

"Perhaps I merely have many things on my mind, and must therefore divide my time between my planning and my doing. Should I add your humiliation to my list?"

Fandral laughed nervously, and began to back away with a smile on his face towards the armoury.

"Do not worry yourself on my count! Thor, my friends, I shall see you at the evening meal"

"Yes," said Sif, "as that is how long it will take you to get yourself presentable again."

Volstagg began to meander off towards the kitchens, even though Loki knew that the cooks would neither find him welcome, nor allow him to raid their wares before they were ready. Doubtless the largest member of the Warriors Three would not see either of these things as a true obstacle however, and find something to stuff his face with anyway. Perhaps, even, one of the servants would find themself so truly in awe of him that they were intimidated into feeding him, like a puppy under a table.

The image of Volstagg as a rotund, red puppy begging for scraps brought a smile to his face. Hm. Tempting, too. Entertaining enough to consider it for a rainy day, or when the man irritated him badly enough.

A shadow passed over him, and he realised that Thor was now next to him, instead of towering over him. Sif had by now made herself scarce also, so it was just the two of them. Loki sighed, and looked away.

"I do not wish to talk about what may or may not be bothering me, so do not force me to."

"Now, brother. I doubt greatly that I could make you do anything that you would not want to. Yet... I do worry."

And, of course, Thor was as bad at lying as Loki was good. He also, unfortunately, was just as stubborn - if not more so.

"It is not your business to worry about my affairs; do you not have your own?"

"Ah, but you are missing one thing," Thor said, pointing his finger in Loki's direction. "You are my brother, therefore all of your business is mine."

"I think I remember telling you that I did not wish to talk about it."

For a moment, there was silence. And for that moment, Loki entertained the idea that maybe, just maybe, Thor had got the idea and for once would just leave it alone.

Then-

"I will not leave until you give me at least some answer. I would not be content to have you remain like this knowing that I had done nothing to aid you."

Loki sighed. Now there would be no getting Thor off of his case unless he gave in. At least a little.

_Fine. Very well._

"It concerns one of my children."

Thor nodded. "Which one?"

It was common knowledge in Asgard that Loki had many children. It was also common knowledge that not all of them were of the standard Aesir shape... that is, two arms, two legs, and opposable thumbs. Yet Loki worried about all of them, regardless of what the others would call them behind his back (_monsters, bastards, sons and daughters of a shape-changer_) and Thor would never hold it against his brother. Any children of Loki's, after all, was a nephew of Thor's, and in the god of thunder's opinion worthy of the utmost respect.

"Does it matter?" Before Thor could say something stupid like 'yes, of course it does!', Loki continued. "There is nothing further that you can do. The child is long since dead, and died valiantly. Yet he is still gone from my reach."

Thor shifted uncomfortably, and Loki knew why. Tact was not one of his strongest points much of the time, and dealing with grief was not something that he often had to consider. Then, suddenly, Thor stood.

"Come, brother. We shall go to the cooks, and tell them to make something fit for remembering our lost ones! We shall have a magnificent feast!"

He held out his hand, and Loki took it, standing.

"That sounds like a sound plan, brother," he said, sounding and feeling for the first time like himself that day, "except for one part."

"And what would that be?"

"The part where you still need to clean yourself before you are let anywhere nar the kitchens, brother. I can still smell your bout with Fandral lingering in the air around you."

Thor laughed, glad no doubt to see a smile on his brother's face again, and made him promise to wait for him, which Loki did.

Yet no amount of feasting could make him forget, and for all the good memories that were brought up, he would remember a spark of hope. Something left behind.

...

AN: Okay, so this was originally going to be posted as chapter six, but I forgot about it! So here it is, as chapter seven. And I think the pacing works better that way.

This should clear up one or two things. I don't know if they'll be a surprise or not, and if they are then for how many. But it's also an insight into Loki's life right now - and our first look at a Loki who isn't an illusion!


	8. Hearing in Tongues

Languages were never something that Harry had ever had a problem with.

Not that he'd had that many classes at school - the Primary that Uncle Vernon had sent him and Dudley to had preferred to focus on other things, more _business_-related things, even though Harry had been quite sure that being able to talk to someone you were dealing with would probably be useful. He'd never asked, though. He'd just assumed that it was something to do with something his uncle had said once; something about 'those bloody foreigners', and 'business is a battlefield, Dudley. You never give your opponent the advantage!'.

Seeing Mr. Bagman talking with the Bulgarian ministry official made Harry realise that in this, just like in everything else, Uncle Vernon had been very wrong.

It wasn't that he could understand everything that the foreigner was saying. He _knew_ that it wasn't a language he'd ever learned or heard that much of. But at the same time, he could tell two things.

One was that he was making Ludo Bagman look like an idiot in front of everyone who could understand Bulgarian.

The other was that he didn't think that he should let on that he understood even this.

It wasn't, after all, something that happened with just one or two langauges. As he, Ron and Hermione made their way through the campsite, he was fairly sure he heard several dozen different ones, and every so often he'd hear something in a voice he'd recognise from having heard a moment ago saying something he couldn't understand.

_"No- that's daddy's wand, put it down-"_

_"I don't know... if we'd just got that point in, we might-"_

_"Have you even seen those muggles-"_

_"-then Japan scored and it was like DAMN!"_

_"I told Sugisaki-san not to file those reports on the potions just yet, but-"_

Each time, if he turned around and looked for the owner of the voice, they would fade out, and somehow back into talking 'nonsense' again. Still, while it could be kind of fun matching the snippets of conversation to the people having them, Ron and Hermione started to look at him strangely after he began to zone out while he did it.

That was the other thing. If he told them he was suddenly hearing things - even if it _was_ just as though people were suddenly being translated when he wasn't looking at them - they'd think it was something bad. Wrong. The last time something like this had happened, it had been because he was a parselmouth, hearing the Basilisk through the walls, in the pipes...

Somehow, he knew it was nothing like that at all. It was just something he could have fun with, really, and didn't affect him all that much.

For all he knew, someone had accidentally fired an incomplete translation spell at him at some point when he wasn't looking. Of course, it wasn't as though they'd be happy with the idea that something like that had happened _either_. But still. It was harmless.

Even so, he was quietly relieved just as much as he was thoroughly excited when the gong sounded to tell them that the match was about to begin, and that they should make their way over to the stadium.


End file.
